


In Exile

by emmystew



Series: In Exile [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cursed Castiel, Cursed Dean, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Prince Dean, Prince Sam, Slow Build, Wings, exiled prince, living in the woods, meg is a cat, so proud of the garden
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:03:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3199907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmystew/pseuds/emmystew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince Dean of Winchester has been cast into exile, leaving behind his kingdom, his title and his family. A curse keeps him from the world so instead, he takes up a residence in the woods, perhaps not content to stay there for the rest of his life - but resigned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Prince Sam

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter really only has Sam's point of view. At this point in the story, Sam has just turned 17 (making it early May) and Dean has been exiled for four and a half years.
> 
> Keep an eye out for revisions, because they're sure to come.

Most of the things that Prince Sam of Winchester knew of his elder brother were probably a lie. Sam couldn’t know that for certain, of course, because it wasn’t his place to question his father, the King. Sam only had his memories of Prince Dean and the whispers of the court and servants to allay his suspicions.

He knew that at the tender age of seventeen Dean had been chased away from his home and family into exile. Sam knew that only hours before Dean had saved his life. He knew that growing up Dean had spent far too many hours practicing with his sword and training with the castle guard in an attempt to live up to their father’s impossible standards. He knew that Dean exasperated his many tutors because he never showed up for his lessons, but always knew the material. Sam knew that Dean loved his brother and his mother and his father.

All of these things Sam knew. But Sam’s only real memory of his brother was his warm laughter and laughing eyes, of unwavering loyalty to his duty, and love for not just his family, but their people. Sam couldn’t really remember Dean’s voice, except that it had been deep and calming, but he knew the shade of his eyes was green like the grass in early summer. The court whispered sometimes of the exiled Prince; lamenting his leaving, gossiping – even now – of his exile. And they spoke, of course, how he had been cursed before he had had to flee for his life.

Sam knew the story of Dean’s exile, knew the details intimately, more so than the castle gossips. He was there, after all. His mother murdered in front of his own eyes, himself almost killed if not for Dean, arriving with just seconds to save his brother’s life, and a lifetime to mourn their mother. Dean had arrived in time to keep his beloved brother from taking the curse, throwing himself in its path.

Their fathers accusations of Dean romanticizing and laying with women instead of protecting his family still rung in Sam’s ears, while Dean knelt before their father and didn’t speak, near writhing in pain from the curse crawling its way through his body; waiting for his chance to explain. Sam had hidden himself behind his mother’s newly black draped throne, and cried when his brother was dragged to his feet and cast into exile, two of the most ruthless guards chasing the boy out of his home and into the bitter cold of winter. Dean hadn’t been giving a chance to speak, to explain himself or his whereabouts. Sam remembered the soldiers return, nearly two months later, grim – but satisfied.

Sam had been found by his father not too long after he’d exiled Dean, and he was scolded for eavesdropping before being sent up to bed. He hadn’t received any true punishment and the next day King John began his youngest sons preparation to become his father’s heir, something John and been grooming Dean for, something that Sam had escaped.

The servants of the castle told a different story than their King did. While King John, if he ever spoke of his exiled son, spoke with scorn and finality, the servants spoke highly of their lost prince, spoke of his bravery and righteous soul. They whispered too, just like the noble court. But the servants whispered that Dean was living a different life, a quiet life, and waiting for his chance to return and reclaim his kingdom.

“He’s probably dead,” Sam whispered to himself as he turned pushed back his history books. His tutor would tut at him for looking at the kingdoms maps again, Sam had the lay of his own kingdom and all the neighboring kingdoms memorized, he knew of every small town and village within six weeks ride of his own home, and he knew there was no need to continue studying them. He would never be granted the time away from the castle he would need to visit them all and find his brother.

Maybe it would be better if he researched the curse Dean had been hit with, whatever the effects, there must have been rumors at some point that would lead him to his brother.

If he were even still alive.

===


	2. Part I: Into the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been over four years since Prince Dean of Winchester has been exiled, and the bad days are far out-weighed by the days he feels moderately accomplished.

“Sammy probably thinks I’m dead,” Dean said softly to himself as he weeded his garden. “Dead or a coward.”

He flared his wings at the thought of his brother before patiently tucking them against his back once more.

“Or a monster,” he whispered.

The last four years had not been easy on the exiled prince. After weeks of being chased by his father’s men, fighting the cursed he now bore and the pain and the confusion of what was happening to his own body – he’d lost his way, lost his bearings and run aimlessly until he found himself on the edge of a small town. The town’s people had been kind, but unwelcoming nonetheless, and though he’d been able to glean small pieces of information from them (where he was, how far from the in relation to what was his home, any news of Sam), they had made him aware that they weren’t willing to have a half mad, half starved stranger stay on to cause trouble for them.

They’d attempted to chase him away, terrified of his strangeness, of the visible effects of the curse, a development which began a week after arriving – his wings, which flickered in and out of their line of sight. Dean can hide them now, of course, but in those first few months, he’d been just as terrified, just as horrified – and just as convinced that he was a monster.

But Dean had been unwilling to leave the town, so he had spent a few horrible, wet months in a small shack he’d found a half days walk from the end of what the townspeople had considered the main road. Eventually he had moved on, but only after he was sure he’d be able to survive on his own. Even then he’d made sure to keep his bearings and stay within a few days walk from the town.

Now, despite all the initial hardships, Dean was accomplished at surviving the woods on his own. He had to be, had to learn quickly, or else he’d have starved or been killed by an animal or his own stupidity. Some days had been harder than others. Harder to remember why he wanted to live, why he wanted to survive another winter in the woods. On those days he remembered John, his father, and his final words as he had his son chased out.

_“You’ll return when I am dead and rotted in the ground!”_

Those days were hard. They were so hard. Dean could hardly lift himself off the ground and he’d spend hours, days screaming.

Other days he’d remember Sam, and his sweet laughter as they rode through the fields surrounding the castle, of his sleepy smile as Queen Mary would tell him a bedtime story while Dean listened at the door. He’d remember Sam and he’d become more determined than ever to survive. To make it back to Winchester and the prince he had been.

Dean was quite proud of his vegetable garden this year. He had had to steal from people of the town to get many of the seeds in the years previous; something had been hesitant to do. As a Prince he’d been showered with everything he could possibly need, while hardly having to lift a finger to receive anything. Creeping into a stranger’s garden in the dead of night for a portion of their crop and risking being caught made him nervous.

“But not this year,” he murmured, again to himself, remembering the previous fall when he had managed to save enough seeds in their own separate jars in order to replant his garden in the spring. There was no one else to speak to, of course, being so deep into the woods. He had made his home so many miles into the woods that not even the most daring of hunters ventured near him. There were stories, apparently, of a demon who hid deep in the woods and used any soul who approached for twisted purposes. The rumors probably came from his bad days, when he would scream for hours on end, unable to withstand the pain quietly. The rumors Dean understood, but the stories made his home out to be some dreary horrible thorn covered den, and him a menacing and bitter demon.

Not at all true; as Dean had had to steal into stranger’s gardens to seed his own garden for the last few years because he hadn’t known how to sow his own. The hunters would not fear to approach his clearing if they knew how often he’d tripped and cursed over the roots of the old oak he hadn’t wanted to cut down because it was too beautiful, and now cast a midday shade over his front door. They’d never fear him if they’d seen his first attempts at fishing, or setting traps, or seen him as he’d attempted to dig a well when the ground had still been frozen. How could you fear a monster that swore and rubbed his back and wings against trees every spring when it came time to molt, and then was able to stuff his own mattress and pillows with feathers afterwards?

Dean didn’t tend to have quite so many bad days now though. He didn’t scream for hours on end anymore, he certainly didn’t spend entire days lying on his bed or the floor or the ground outside, refusing to move. Dean threw himself into his work. He built up his bed, made it as plush and comfortable as he old one had been. He created decorative items to fill his cabin, tasked himself with creating beautiful things, instead of just items to survive. And he worked his garden.

The exiled prince gazed fondly at the garden. It was bigger this year than it had been before; he was growing more food for himself. The radishes were just starting to push through the soil with the potatoes, onions and carrots. His lines of peas were beginning to develop pods, and the tomato vines were climbing the lattice he had built over the winter. Three long rows of corn were just starting to really gain height and would soon be strong enough to carry their ears. In the corner of the plot he had transplanted wild strawberries, which were starting to flower. He was trying herbs his year as well; basil, parsley, rosemary, thyme – anything that he had been able to transplant back into his garden. Most of the herbs he had found in the woods, growing wild, some he’d traded for in town. Dean stretched his back and sat on his heals to survey his garden again, and then the clearing he had built his home in.

He had been very lucky to be exiled at the end of winter. He would have never survived the bitter cold, having never been truly exposed to its winds and ice before. If Dean had been cast out into winter midway into the snowy season, he is sure he wouldn’t have made it within two miles of the castle before he simply gave up. He would have never survived if all the game in the forest had still been hibernating. Though he was loathe to admit it, without the burning fever of the foul curse, he probably wouldn’t have survived as long as he had in the cold. But he’d been lucky. He’d found the shack to keep out the weather before the spring rains had started. He’d been far enough away from town that his screams of pain weren’t like to have had reached the townspeople – but also close enough to slowly procure the items he would need to build his own proper home – an ax to fell trees, a shovel to dig a well, a bow and quiver and knife to hunt, a lantern and candles to navigate the darkness, and of course, seeds. He’d found a small cart to carry the rest of his new possessions and made his way into the woods.

His home now stood in a moderately sized clearing lined with a waist high log fence to keep deer and other wandering grazers out. He’d build a platform over the well to keep the water cool in the hot summer months, and covered during the winter. It also helped to keep small animals out of his clean water, something he’d unfortunately learned the hard way. The log cabin was spacious enough for him, most of his front room dedicated to drying skins and a larger than necessary fireplace. He kept his wood box full, even during the summer months, and kept more wood stacked as close to his door as possible. There were three rooms in the cabin: the front room, his bedroom and a back room - which was mostly used for storage. Cloth he had purchased but hadn’t found a use for, jars he had used and was intending to use again, small pieces of wood work he had created and hadn’t had the heart to sell or trade.

Last winter he had dug out a basement, which he intended to use for more storage and as a root cellar. The floor was still dirt, but it would hold more than the back room could, and it would allow him to store more firewood and potentially venture into town even less than he already did.

Spring was nearly over, the rains had passed and the days were warming up and lengthening. He’d need to start planning his summer trip into town, his carvings and collected furs would need to be traded for items he couldn’t glean from the woods surrounding his home.

Fruit, vegetables, meat, firewood, furs, weapons; these things he could hunt or grow or gather or make. Cloth, cookware, tools, spices, soaps, and news – those were the things he ventured into town for.

It had been four and a half years since he had been chased from his home with the threat of vengeance hanging over him should he ever seek to return. Dean didn’t intend to return, even once his father did finally pass. Though Dean may at times be incredibly lonely, he was also happier than he’d been as Prince.

This was his home now.

===

“This is MY home!” Dean roared, as he lunged once again in an attempt to fend off the intruder. “I built it! It’s mine! GET OUT!”

The young prince hit the floor of the front room, while his intruder stepped nimbly out of reach. He staggered to his feet; wings spread out menacingly and lunged again, fingers just barely missing a slender foot.

Dean climbed to his feet again, and scowled across the room where a cat was watching him. This far out into the woods, he was surprised the cat had survived as long as it had. He was a four days walk to the nearest town and there were dangers in the woods beyond rumors. The cat, he supposed, was a very beautiful creature, and clearly very intelligent. She had a sleek body covered with black and gold fur and golden eyes that gleamed with what was probably mirth. She was a little on the thin side, probably from having spent so long in the woods alone. But her ears were large and twitching towards him as they stared each other down, the sign of a mouser.

There had been mice in his garden, he supposed, now eyeing the cat contemplatively.

The cat, realizing he was no longer attempting to catch it, sat down and began delicately grooming its whiskers. Dean fetched a small dish and filled it with water from the bucket he kept in the cabin.

“If you’re staying, you’re earning your keep,” he told the cat.

She stared at him with narrowed eyes before drinking from the dish and slinking towards his chair for a nap.

Perhaps it was time for him to build a second chair.

===

“Sammy probably thinks I’m dead,” Dean said softly to himself as he weeded his garden. “Dead or a coward.”

He flared his wings at the thought of his brother before patiently tucking them against his back once more.

“Or a monster,” he whispered.

The last four years had not been easy on the exiled prince. After weeks of being chased by his father’s men, fighting the cursed he now bore and the pain and the confusion of what was happening to his own body – he’d lost his way, lost his bearings and run aimlessly until he found himself on the edge of a small town. The town’s people had been kind, but unwelcoming nonetheless, and though he’d been able to glean small pieces of information from them (where he was, how far from the in relation to what was his home, any news of Sam), they had made him aware that they weren’t willing to have a half mad, half starved stranger stay on to cause trouble for them.

They’d attempted to chase him away, terrified of his strangeness, of the visible effects of the curse, a development which began a week after arriving – his wings, which flickered in and out of their line of sight. Dean can hide them now, of course, but in those first few months, he’d been just as terrified, just as horrified – and just as convinced that he was a monster.

But Dean had been unwilling to leave the town, so he had spent a few horrible, wet months in a small shack he’d found a half days walk from the end of what the townspeople had considered the main road. Eventually he had moved on, but only after he was sure he’d be able to survive on his own. Even then he’d made sure to keep his bearings and stay within a few days walk from the town.

Now, despite all the initial hardships, Dean was accomplished at surviving the woods on his own. He had to be, had to learn quickly, or else he’d have starved or been killed by an animal or his own stupidity. Some days had been harder than others. Harder to remember why he wanted to live, why he wanted to survive another winter in the woods. On those days he remembered John, his father, and his final words as he had his son chased out.

_“You’ll return when I am dead and rotted in the ground!”_

Those days were hard. They were so hard. Dean could hardly lift himself off the ground and he’d spend hours, days screaming.

Other days he’d remember Sam, and his sweet laughter as they rode through the fields surrounding the castle, of his sleepy smile as Queen Mary would tell him a bedtime story while Dean listened at the door. He’d remember Sam and he’d become more determined than ever to survive. To make it back to Winchester and the prince he had been.

Dean was quite proud of his vegetable garden this year. He had had to steal from people of the town to get many of the seeds in the years previous; something had been hesitant to do. As a Prince he’d been showered with everything he could possibly need, while hardly having to lift a finger to receive anything. Creeping into a stranger’s garden in the dead of night for a portion of their crop and risking being caught made him nervous.

“But not this year,” he murmured, again to himself, remembering the previous fall when he had managed to save enough seeds in their own separate jars in order to replant his garden in the spring. There was no one else to speak to, of course, being so deep into the woods. He had made his home so many miles into the woods that not even the most daring of hunters ventured near him. There were stories, apparently, of a demon who hid deep in the woods and used any soul who approached for twisted purposes. The rumors probably came from his bad days, when he would scream for hours on end, unable to withstand the pain quietly. The rumors Dean understood, but the stories made his home out to be some dreary horrible thorn covered den, and him a menacing and bitter demon.

Not at all true; as Dean had had to steal into stranger’s gardens to seed his own garden for the last few years because he hadn’t known how to sow his own. The hunters would not fear to approach his clearing if they knew how often he’d tripped and cursed over the roots of the old oak he hadn’t wanted to cut down because it was too beautiful, and now cast a midday shade over his front door. They’d never fear him if they’d seen his first attempts at fishing, or setting traps, or seen him as he’d attempted to dig a well when the ground had still been frozen. How could you fear a monster that swore and rubbed his back and wings against trees every spring when it came time to molt, and then was able to stuff his own mattress and pillows with feathers afterwards?

Dean didn’t tend to have quite so many bad days now though. He didn’t scream for hours on end anymore, he certainly didn’t spend entire days lying on his bed or the floor or the ground outside, refusing to move. Dean threw himself into his work. He built up his bed, made it as plush and comfortable as he old one had been. He created decorative items to fill his cabin, tasked himself with creating beautiful things, instead of just items to survive. And he worked his garden.

The exiled prince gazed fondly at the garden. It was bigger this year than it had been before; he was growing more food for himself. The radishes were just starting to push through the soil with the potatoes, onions and carrots. His lines of peas were beginning to develop pods, and the tomato vines were climbing the lattice he had built over the winter. Three long rows of corn were just starting to really gain height and would soon be strong enough to carry their ears. In the corner of the plot he had transplanted wild strawberries, which were starting to flower. He was trying herbs his year as well; basil, parsley, rosemary, thyme – anything that he had been able to transplant back into his garden. Most of the herbs he had found in the woods, growing wild, some he’d traded for in town. Dean stretched his back and sat on his heals to survey his garden again, and then the clearing he had built his home in.

He had been very lucky to be exiled at the end of winter. He would have never survived the bitter cold, having never been truly exposed to its winds and ice before. If Dean had been cast out into winter midway into the snowy season, he is sure he wouldn’t have made it within two miles of the castle before he simply gave up. He would have never survived if all the game in the forest had still been hibernating. Though he was loathe to admit it, without the burning fever of the foul curse, he probably wouldn’t have survived as long as he had in the cold. But he’d been lucky. He’d found the shack to keep out the weather before the spring rains had started. He’d been far enough away from town that his screams of pain weren’t like to have had reached the townspeople – but also close enough to slowly procure the items he would need to build his own proper home – an ax to fell trees, a shovel to dig a well, a bow and quiver and knife to hunt, a lantern and candles to navigate the darkness, and of course, seeds. He’d found a small cart to carry the rest of his new possessions and made his way into the woods.

His home now stood in a moderately sized clearing lined with a waist high log fence to keep deer and other wandering grazers out. He’d build a platform over the well to keep the water cool in the hot summer months, and covered during the winter. It also helped to keep small animals out of his clean water, something he’d unfortunately learned the hard way. The log cabin was spacious enough for him, most of his front room dedicated to drying skins and a larger than necessary fireplace. He kept his wood box full, even during the summer months, and kept more wood stacked as close to his door as possible. There were three rooms in the cabin: the front room, his bedroom and a back room - which was mostly used for storage. Cloth he had purchased but hadn’t found a use for, jars he had used and was intending to use again, small pieces of wood work he had created and hadn’t had the heart to sell or trade.

Last winter he had dug out a basement, which he intended to use for more storage and as a root cellar. The floor was still dirt, but it would hold more than the back room could, and it would allow him to store more firewood and potentially venture into town even less than he already did.

Spring was nearly over, the rains had passed and the days were warming up and lengthening. He’d need to start planning his summer trip into town, his carvings and collected furs would need to be traded for items he couldn’t glean from the woods surrounding his home.

Fruit, vegetables, meat, firewood, furs, weapons; these things he could hunt or grow or gather or make. Cloth, cookware, tools, spices, soaps, and news – those were the things he ventured into town for.

It had been four and a half years since he had been chased from his home with the threat of vengeance hanging over him should he ever seek to return. Dean didn’t intend to return, even once his father did finally pass. Though Dean may at times be incredibly lonely, he was also happier than he’d been as Prince.

This was his home now.

===

 

“This is MY home!” Dean roared, as he lunged once again in an attempt to fend off the intruder. “I built it! It’s mine! GET OUT!”

The young prince hit the floor of the front room, while his intruder stepped nimbly out of reach. He staggered to his feet; wings spread out menacingly and lunged again, fingers just barely missing a slender foot.

Dean climbed to his feet again, and scowled across the room where a cat was watching him. This far out into the woods, he was surprised the cat had survived as long as it had. He was a four days walk to the nearest town and there were dangers in the woods beyond rumors. The cat, he supposed, was a very beautiful creature, and clearly very intelligent. She had a sleek body covered with black and gold fur and golden eyes that gleamed with what was probably mirth. She was a little on the thin side, probably from having spent so long in the woods alone. But her ears were large and twitching towards him as they stared each other down, the sign of a mouser.

There had been mice in his garden, he supposed, now eyeing the cat contemplatively.

The cat, realizing he was no longer attempting to catch it, sat down and began delicately grooming its whiskers. Dean fetched a small dish and filled it with water from the bucket he kept in the cabin.

“If you’re staying, you’re earning your keep,” he told the cat.

She stared at him with narrowed eyes before drinking from the dish and slinking towards his chair for a nap.

Perhaps it was time for him to build a second chair.

===


	3. Chapter 3

===

As it turned out, there were also mice finding their way into his root cellar. As the days grew longer, Meg the cat grew fatter. She alternated her time between napping in his chair, napping outside in his new second chair by the front door, tormenting the many mice she caught and attempting to trip Dean as he worked by winding her way between his steps. It was only his wings which saved him several broken ankles, as he’d flutter into the air every time he started to fall.

Dean continued to work his garden and the surrounding woods to stock his home for winter. Perhaps he was a bit more cheerful with Meg around, the cat bringing both amusement and companionship to his home. Through his cheer he became much more proficient in his work. He built new boxes to store his vegetables and boxes to fill with fruit from the trees he knew of in the woods. He wove baskets to fill with nuts he scoured from the forest floor and filled new barrels with smoked fish and meat. One day he stumbled upon a honey tree and had excitedly taken all he could, filling over a dozen of the jars in his storeroom with golden honey. Meg had leapt gleefully after the angrily buzzing bees as Dean laughed and worked to gather the honey. The bee stings he had suffered had been worth it, and they healed within moments anyway.

He was also planning his trip into town. Everything he had made over the winter was packed into a new cart and made ready for the long journey.

As a rule, Dean didn’t like the trip into town, as much as a necessity as it had become. He didn’t like leaving his home unprotected for the ten days he’d be away from it. He didn’t like that the only protection his home did have was rumors and obscurity. But his boots were wearing thin and despite everything Dean could do with his hands, he was no cobbler.

Meg frowned at him from her perch on her chair as he reread over his list of things to bring back from town. He had risen much earlier than normal, picked enough from his garden to last him his journey and filled several water skins. “I’ll be home as quickly as possible,” Dean promised her as he placed his list in his pocket and slung his bow and quiver over his shoulder. “Keep the garden tidy, wont you?”

She flicked her tail lazily, agreeing to maintain her side of their bargain.

Dean smiled at her, fond even though he didn’t want to be, and turned to start his journey before the sun rose. If he was quick, he could make the journey in three days and be back in just over a week.

===

Bartering in town was the reason Dean took as few trips out of the woods as possible. He was usually able to sell all his wares at the main store, all his furs and trappings and carvings were easy to trade for cloth, tools, candles, and whatever else he needed. But he needed a new pair of boots; and his mind was growing weary of hard work and he wanted new books to read in the evenings, and it wasn’t often that a bookkeeper would trade for a jar of honey or a cobbler to agree to work for chess pieces whittled out of wood.

It took two days – a day longer than Dean wanted – before he was able to barter and sell all of his goods, purchase all the items on his list, and begin the long journey home. Sheer impatience got the better of him and he traveled night and day, using his wings to help clear the path and add speed to his steps, as well as sleeping as little as possible to make it home that much sooner. He made the trip in two days, only to find that his home had been invaded yet again.

Meg, whom he’d tasked with protecting his little clearing, had clearly welcomed the intruder and sat basking in the sunshine on his lap.

A man who looked slightly younger than Dean sat in the chair by the front door of the cabin, the same chair Meg had been sitting in when Dean left. He had dark hair and a lithe build, nothing like the bulk Dean carried. His feet were bare and dirty from traveling the woods, his pants full of holes, there was a large rip torn across his shirt and he was covered in dirt and grime and what looked like blood from head to toe. His eyes were closed and it looked as though he may have actually fallen asleep there. There was a bag clenched tightly in his hands. Meg sat in this man’s lap and as Dean came into view with the cart she began purring, as though looking to be praised.

“Meg!” Dean groaned, glaring at the cat.

The man startled at his voice, sitting upright and his eyes opening to reveal such a surprising shade of blue that Dean stopped walking and simply stared. His wings flared out to their full span, puffing up in a way they had never done before.

“Oh!” The man said, his voice surprisingly deep, scrambling to his feet. Meg fell from his lap and sauntered away behind the cabin. “Oh, I’m, um, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think anyone lived here! I mean, obviously someone lived here, but I didn’t think it was a demon. Not that I think you’re the demon! I just – they chased me from my village and I was so tired…”

He trailed off, watching warily as Dean moved closer, dragging his cart with him. The man backed up a few steps, his eyes wide in fear and fascination, locked on Dean’s wings.

Dean very carefully tucked his wings away, not liking the attention.

“You’re not going to steal my soul, are you?” The man asked, hesitantly.

“This is my home,” Dean told him with a sigh.

“I – yes,” the man said.

“Summer is ending soon. If you’re going to stay, you’ll need to earn your keep.”

It felt as though he were saying that a lot these days. First to Meg and now he was saying it to this stranger. But for all that he groaned about her, Meg was a companion who filled a hole. Granted, she tended to fill the hole with mice and small birds, but she was also someone he could call on. This stranger may have new skills to teach Dean, and would be able to converse in ways that Meg simply could not.

“Yes.” The man replied, nodding. He extended his hand, a small, stunned smile on his lips. “I’m Castiel,” he said.

“Dean,” Dean replied taking the other’s hand.

===

Castiel, as it turned out, fared from a village on the other side of the woods, a two weeks journey on horseback from Dean’s clearing. He had been making his way towards the town Dean had just been in, hoping to find a new home and a new life there.

“My grandmother raised me,” Castiel told him later that first evening as he helped Dean unpack his items from town. He had washed most of the grime off of his skin, had taken new clothes from his bag to replace his torn items and was currently turning two rabbits on the fire. “She was raised by a farmer and married the town baker. Her only daughter, my mother, died when I was very young. I never knew my father. Grandmother taught me everything she knew. How to sew, to bake, to work the fields, everything – she died, a few weeks ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said softly, placing the few books he’d been able to bargain from the bookkeeper on his shelf and turning back towards his pile.

Castiel sighed and prodded at the fire, sending up a shower of sparks – not knowing what else to do with his hands. “There was a man in town who wanted to marry me to his daughter once I turned of age,” he said then. “It should have been three years ago. But Grandmother had told him no, that she needed me to take care of her. She told me that he was a witch, and his daughter was too, she knew I would never agree. When Grandmother died, the man tried to have his daughter entrap me in marriage and when I refused her, she told them she had caught me in the cemetery…” he stopped talking, his hands clenching the fire poker in anger. “They chased me out then, didn’t want someone so disgusting in the village. The man tried to kill me for the shame I’d caused his daughter. When he missed-”

“The cut on your shirt,” Dean realized.

“He had terrible aim,” Castiel said, with a wry smile. “At least he gave me a good hunting knife. But when he missed with the knife, he cursed me instead. It was curse to embody my fears. To become what I’m afraid of.” He laughed suddenly. “All I’m really afraid of is the demon of the woods, which I guess-,” he said, smiling to himself. “Is you.”

Dean tensed, looking carefully at the man sitting in front of him. A curse to embody his fears? Was it the same curse that Dean had been hit with all those years ago? Shaking himself, Dean forced a laugh. “I’m not a demon, I’m just a disgraced Prince who was chased out of his home.” he said. “What you should be afraid of is breaking your ankle on the roots by the garden. You need boots.”

“I can make boots,” Castiel told him. “I was good friends with the cobbler; he showed me how to work leather. And I won’t really need them until the frost comes. “

“Where were you two weeks ago,” Dean moaned, thinking of the half day he spent arguing and bartering with the cobbler. “I have some deer hide and rabbit furs that you can use if you want.”

Castiel smiled, his blue eyes warm and his face relaxed in contentment. He put aside the fire poker and started folding the flannel Dean had bought with the intent of making new blankets.

That night they shared Dean’s bed with Meg slinking into the space between them. Dean woke with a smile the next morning and quickly roused Castiel to begin the days work.

Over the next few days, Castiel began to falter around late morning, his face pinched with pain, and as time moved on, Dean began to notice the same symptoms that he himself had suffered. The fatigue, the pain, the fever, the feathers in the morning – until, just before the first frost, he sprouted a set of wings as well.

===

The fall months moved quickly after Castiel arrived in Dean’s life, and the two men rushed to chop more firewood, to glean the final bearings from Dean’s garden, so pickle and dry and save all that they could before the first frost arrived. In the evenings that Castiel felt well enough they sat by the fire and traded stories and worked on projects by the flickering light casting its glow on them. Meg often sat curled up between them, flicking her tail as she drifted in between naps. Soon there were no secrets between the two men, and as their evenings progressed through the season, they came to expand on their relationship; moving from strangers to friends to lovers.

Castiel made himself a new pair of shoes, and when he finished he set about making a warmer pair of winter shoes, and then a matching hat for Dean out of the rabbit’s Dean had caught. Dean spent his time skinning the game his traps had caught that day, or carving a new bowl sets and other bits of things that Castiel decided they needed if the traps had proved unfruitful.

“Do you ever try to fly,” Castiel asked, one such evening. Meg was curled up on his lap and he was idly petting her with one hand, while the other traced patterns on his newly formed wings.

“I-“ Dean hesitated, “I’m afraid of heights,” he said so quietly that Castiel almost didn’t hear him. “Sometimes I catch myself when I’m falling – which is enough to set my heart racing – so, no. Not really.”

Castiel laughed. “We should go test them together,” he said. “The roof probably needs some repairs done; if you’re such a baby about heights, you’ve probably been putting it off. And flying up would be easier than climbing.”

Dean grumbled but agreed.

The next day Castiel stood in their little clearing with his wings spread wide, concentrating on trying to get into the air. Between one blink and the next he was on the roof of the cabin, looking dazed and exhausted.

“How did you do that?” Dean yelled, his eyes wide with worry – and perhaps a little amusement. Because that hadn’t been flying, or if it was, it was so quick that he hadn’t been able to track Castiel as he moved from the ground to the roof.

Castiel shook his head, slipped on the icy rooftop, and yelling, began to fall. Somehow the dark haired man managed to fly himself into the air where he hovered, his great black wings flapping strongly, keeping him aloft.

Dean frowned in concentration, squeezed his eyes shut – not believing what he was about to do – and forced his own tawny wings to flap him into the air as well.

The two spent the rest of the day testing their strength and speed, chasing each other through the air above the forest and attempting to tackle the other out of the air. And occasionally, flying so fast it appeared that they had teleported. Until that moment, of course, that Castiel flew through the walls of their cabin, much to both of their shock when he reappeared, unhurt in the doorway. Perhaps they were teleporting.

Castiel laughed so hard and long at the thought that he could literally fly anywhere in the blink of an eye, through walls and into homes. The very next day he disappeared before the sun rose and returned holding a plethora of items including a cast iron cooking pot and a hanger to hang it in the fireplace, a cast iron griddle, a plethora of other cooking instruments and several very sharp chopping knives. He also dragged a rocking chair into the cabin, along with quilts, pillows, curtains and more books than Dean had seen in the last five years combined.

“They were my grandmothers,” Castiel explained as he carefully hung the cooking pot in the fire and started some water to boil. He kept his face angled away from Dean in an attempt to hide the pain he was feeling at needing to steal back his own possessions. “Part of my inheritance, I suppose, had Zachariah not had me chased from my home.”

Dean didn’t respond verbally, but he did gather Castiel tightly in his arms for several long minutes.

The days of winter began to shorten more and more and the two men spent the few hours of daylight they had working in the root cellar; walling the sides and gathering, chopping and bringing in fresh wood to keep the fire going and then flying whenever they had a spare moment. Their evenings they curled up together in front of the fire or in their bed, simply enjoying each other’s nearness.

Of all the winters Dean had spent in those woods, this one was by far the most enjoyable.

===

When the first chicken arrived in the clearing right after the snow melted into spring, Dean was more than a little surprised and there were long looks traded between himself and Castiel over its arrival, but he didn’t actually say the words that were on the tip of his tongue. The next six chickens in the clearing required that he build a coop, so as to keep Meg from upping her game from rodents to poultry. The eggs did wonders for their meal times, and though Dean didn’t mind the hemming and hawing of the hens as they pecked around their yard, the one rooster who crowed every thirty seconds had a date with his ax.

In due course, Dean’s molt hit, with Castiel’s not too far behind and the two spent a few days combing old feathers out of each other’s wings with their fingers. It was, Dean decided right before he tackled the other man into their shared bed for an impromptu wrestling match, much better than attempting to go about it on his own.

“I love you,” Dean told Castiel as they lay in a nest of their own feathers, some of the down still floating in the air. It wasn’t the first time he had declared such a thing to Castiel, but his heart still fluttered the same way, and his cheeks still turned as pink as they had the first time.

The former prince ran one finger down the dark haired mans flushed cheek and brushed a stray feather off of his shoulder. His mouth followed the path his finger had drawn before he lifted his face up to kiss Castiel’s lips.

They parted, smiling at each other, before Dean wiggled slightly his grin faltering. His left wing twitched, a few of his secondary flight feathers – those just out of his reach – had clumped together with oil and were starting to itch.

Castiel laughed and sat up to straighten them back out.

When the set of piglets and the two calves’s arrived, at the very beginning of the summer – with just enough time for Dean and Castiel to build a suitable barn before the snow began to fall again – Dean blocked the blue eyed man from leaving the cabin before he was able to start his work for the day.

“Cas,” he said, desperately, “where are you stealing them from? We can’t keep them!”

“No one will ever come looking for them, Dean,” Castiel told him with a smirk.

Clearly, for all that Dean was now against stealing, Castiel had no such qualms. The lives they had had were stolen by greed and lies, guilt and anger, and Castiel was willing to take back whatever he could in order to recover their losses.

“Nobody saw me take them, and they wouldn’t look for them here. I traveled much too far for them to ever hope to find us. The piglets will grow as will the calves, and in a few years we’ll have more. We’ll have milk and cheese and butter and beef and bacon and ham. They’ll grow into big hogs, big cows, we’ll gain so much by keeping them. We can have this for us, Dean,” Castiel said earnestly. “I’ll care for them during the winter. I know what they’ll need.”

“Winter is already going to be hard,” Dean attempted to protest. “We barely made it last winter, we were lucky it ended when it did. For us two we’ll have to work even harder to make sure we’ll be alright. And these are even more mouths to feed – Cas, I just, I’m not sure.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow and looked around the cabin. His sharp blue eyes lighted on the door to the backroom, before moving to the door to the root cellar. He knew how much food was already stashed away. The honey, the strawberries they had made into preserves, the smoked fish and meat and nuts and fruit they had gathered so far.

“And that’s another thing,” he said, as though they had been in the middle of a different discussion. “You need to show me where the honey tree is, so that we can harvest the bees too. And the wax, it’s not just all about the honey, you know.”

Dean sighed, relenting his case. There was no arguing with the other man.

“Gathering the honey is dangerous, the bees get so angry – I don’t want you to be stung.” He protested weakly.

“You never got stung.” Castiel returned, lifting an eyebrow.

“Of course I did,” Dean argued. “And I’m lucky that I cannot be hurt, because that surely would have done it.”

Castiel laid one hand softly against Dean’s cheek. “Trust me,” he said his voice confident and brimming with excitement.

“Cas,” Dean said softly, trapping the other man’s hand to his cheek with his own. “I trust you, with everything I have. You know that. You _must_ know that.”

“But?” Castiel asked, his eyes still bright with his victory.

“No ‘buts’, I trust you. We’ll raise the pigs and the cows; I’ll show you the honey tree and you can show me how to harvest the bees and the wax, and we’ll have a better winter than last.”

Castiel leaned in and pressed his lips against Dean’s. “There is my prince,” he murmured, pulling back.

Dean sighed but pulled the other man back in for a deeper kiss.

“I’ll need to plant a bigger garden in the spring,” he muttered, mostly to himself as Castiel had already swept out the door and into the clearing.

===

Castiel declared not too long after they had finished building the barn that he was going to take care of the trip into town that summer. As spring had dragged itself into the heat of summer, the dark haired man had spent more and more time tripping over all of the furs Dean had spent the winter cultivating and was sick of them laying around the cabin. They didn’t need too much from town either, now that they had their own veritable farm.

“You hate going to town,” Castiel insisted, the night before he was due to leave.

“I-“ Dean spluttered, because it was true, and they both knew it. He furiously stirred the stew cooking over the fire. “Yes, I do,” he said, his tone dark. “But I hate the thought of losing you more. The people in that town, they hate strangers and-“

“That doesn’t matter,” Castiel cut him off. “A store will sell and trade with anyone so long as they leave right away. And _put that list away,_ ” He scowled, jabbing his finger at the list Dean had scribbled out for this years trip. “It’s ridiculous, I am not trading a bear fur for more flannel, or honey for boots. We do not need more flannel, and I can make you boots! What we need is wheat flour and candles and _stop making that face at me Dean!_ ”

Dean, who was indeed making faces at his beloved, quickly schooled his expression. “Cas,” he attempted. “What if we both went?”

Castiel’s lip twisted into one of his victory smirks.

“Oh you minx,” Dean snorted, stepping forward and gathering the other man up in his arms, pressing their foreheads together. “This was just a ploy to for us to go into town together.”

“We haven’t spent a day apart from the day we met,” Castiel told him, the smirk gone and his blue eyes shy in a way Dean had never seen before.

Dean wasn’t sure who initiated that kiss, but it held every iota of love for Castiel he possessed. His joy, his exasperation, his excitement – all of it trapped in the confines of this heated kiss. When he pulled back moments, days, _eons_ later, Castiel’s eyes were wet and there was a warm flush on his cheeks.

Tenderly, because how could he do it any other way, Dean brushed away the tears and pressed more kisses against Castiel’s cheeks and lips. “You,” he said softly, “are everything to me, and I won’t lose you.”

Meg chose that moment to dart past them, chasing a mouse she had undoubtedly brought in from the garden, before crashing into her beloved chair. Both men broke into laughter as the cat attempted to regain her composure as well as the path of the mouse.

“But you really are something else too,” Dean laughed, turning back to the stew. “How’s this. Tomorrow morning we’ll fly to the outskirts of town, do our trading and be back for dinner. We will pack everything and make a new list tonight before dark, and once the sun goes down, I take you to bed.”

“Oh, I like this plan,” Castiel murmured, “but let me revise it. I’m going to take you to bed right now, then we’ll have dinner, pack and make our new list, and then you can take me back to bed when the sun goes down. And together, we’ll leave for town in the morning.”

The exiled prince swallowed thickly, his blood rushing. “I do always like your revisions,” he managed, before he was tackled and flown through the wall to land on the bed.

===

_“Look, they have yarn!”_

“Yarn, Cas?”

Castiel was darting through the town store as though he had never seen one before. Dean was standing at the counter with the shop owner. Both men were staring in amusement as the very excited Castiel moved from one display to the next, trading glances with each other as they worked through the first pile of furs. Dean’s revised list was sitting on the counter next to them.

“And look! Buttons! Oh, and cinnamon! Is that – it is, look! _Tea! We must get some tea!”_

Dean laughed again and turned back to the old man he was trading with.

“Your carvings always sell so well,” the old man said. His name was Bobby, and he and his second wife Ellen lived above the store. “Did you bring any of those? The furs we can price later, I know you always bring me excellent product.”

Dean smiled an easy smile – which caused Bobby to blink at him in surprise – and unpacked the second bundle of furs, which he had wrapped around and around his carvings.

“That’s more like it,” Bobby said, as Castiel danced past, laughing about the decorative candles and china dolls. The shopkeeper spent a long time looking through Dean’s carvings, and then the furs he had spent so many evenings tending to. He wrote numbers and tallies in his ledger, as he always did when he went through Dean’s trade. “That’s an interesting kid you got with you this time.”

“Cas? He’s just excited. He’s been holed up in the cabin for a year with me. Kind of boring out there.”

Bobby hummed at Dean, looking carefully again at the chess set in his hands before setting it aside and looking through the rest of the carvings again. “Is this your list here?” He asked after several minutes, glancing down at the scrap of paper. He frowned, noting that it was dissimilar to what Dean normally came into town for. “Not your usual list. You don’t usually buy flour and sugar and the like. It’ll be tough to carry back by yourselves.

“We’ll be fine,” Castiel said, appearing at the counter, his earlier excitement tucked away. “Now that I’m around there’s going to be actual food during the winter, not just meat and vegetable stew.”

“Well, there’s more than enough here to cover the list. I’d say you have about a hundred more than you brought in.”

Dean nodded. “Then we’ll add the yarn and some needles, a couple dozen buttons, a pound of the black tea, some extra yeast-”

“How about this,” Castiel asked with a mischievous grin, holding up a pair of suspenders.

Dean rolled his eyes and turned back to Bobby. “And some flannel.”

“Should do the trick,” Bobby said over Castiel’s groan of “ _we don’t need more flannel!”_ , scratching the overgrowth of hair on face with a wry grin. “You sure boys going to be able to carry is all back by yourselves? Flour, sugar, it’s pretty heavy. I know you live a ways out there, son, don’t want you to get hurt.”

After assuring Bobby that they would manage the trip back without any problems, they commenced with picking out new fabrics for shirts and pants, as well as the needed sewing kit, yarn and needles, a patterned flannel that Castiel didn’t hate, as well as the rest of their list. Bobby watched in amusement and confusion as Dean had previously bought all his clothes pre-made from the tailor. Castiel took special pleasure going through the button jars and picking out his favorites.

“Always a pleasure trading with you,” Dean said several hours later as they packed everything into a very sturdy, very large packing box that Bobby had insisted they needed, just outside the front door of the shop.

Bobby nodded, still looking amused as Castiel took a final look around the shop. The dark haired man had been in and out of the shop the whole morning, flitting to the bookstore to pick up something new to read, visiting the baker with questions about different recipes they might have, the tailor to see the latest styles, as well as visiting many of the other shops the town had to offer. “I’ll see you next year boys, have a good winter.”

Dean and Castiel each took a side of the box and lifted it before making their way to the path heading south. They navigated carefully around a nobleman and his horse before disappearing into the woods. Moments after they were out of sight of the town, they had arrived back in the clearing of their home.

===


End file.
